He swallowed the stuff he’d filled his mouth with, scalding his tongue and throat, but hardly noticing it, when he saw Bette hurriedly walk down Washington street, one of the town’s main streets, after exiting one of the clothing stores, swinging a large shopping bag, bulked up by a large box inside. She must have bought riding boots or something. Interesting.

It had been an unbelievable thrill late last week to get a call from The Man himself, who offered a “wet work” job to take down a target. He nearly jumped out of his chair when he’d heard that voice.  He was a relative unknown in this specialized field, still pretty young, in his mid-twenties, and had been dishonorably discharged from the New Zealand force.  He’d had very few contacts in this specialized market.  And, since leaving the force, he’d only done two other contract jobs, and had nearly botched those.  Both had been routed to him by a former MI6 agent.

His chest had puffed up a bit on getting a direct call from such a figure. I guess my work’s gotten people’s attention! The Man had introduced himself briefly on the phone, and then had asked, “I think I have a job that would interest you, Jerrod.  Should be easy enough for someone with your skills.  Think you’d like to earn an easy 100k?”

Then a day later, his usual contact had gotten in touch, and had passed him instructions to fly to New York from New Zealand. Jerrod was to wait for instructions at the drab hotel in midtown where he’d been booked.

He’d waited three more days after arriving wondering about when he’d be called again. He’d spent his time waiting for that call to acclimatize himself to the time zone and the disorienting lights and atmosphere in New York City, and to establish a monitoring routine to track his target.  Meanwhile, he’d confirmed that his Caymans account had been replenished with 50k, as The Man had promised.  The other 50k would be transmitted once the kill was confirmed.

Later on the fourth day he’d been texted a puzzling message that the job had been canceled, and that he was on his own. His contact advised him to get out of New York and fly back to his “hidey-hole” in a small town about 50 miles from Auckland.